


The Sexorcist

by mznaughty01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Humor, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mznaughty01/pseuds/mznaughty01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a video floating around on the internet of Sam having sex with some guy. Dean was not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sexorcist

It was the name. The stupid name was the only reason Dean clicked on the link, because, c’mon, _The Sexorcist_? Given his line of business, how could he _not_ check it out?

When his Googlefu had turned up that particular gem, Dean knew he had to watch the video. Knew it was his _duty_ as a hunter of supernatural creatures to watch. As a precautionary measure to, like, make sure an incubus or succubus, or any other sex crazed creature for that matter, hadn’t infiltrated the porno industry. Or that something just as bad along those same lines hadn’t happened.

Because, when he thought about it, and this was the basis for a foolproof argument for watching a porno that held the dubious honor of having a title more ridiculous than most, if an invasion had somehow managed to occur, that would be bad. Real, real bad. As bad as a vampire being trapped in a room full of hemophiliacs for an extended period of time and a hunter hoping against hope that on rescue the parasite had only drunk enough to ensure his or her survival even when faced with such a delectable smorgasbord. Knowing what he knew from having been in the hunting world for so long, Dean recognized to hold on to such a foolish expectation was, for lack of a better word, yeah, _bad_.

At their very core, incubi and succubi were the same as vamps...they drained their victims to death, no regrets, no remorse. As a connoisseur of sex, Dean was of the strong opinion the intimate relations between a man and a woman, a man and a man or a woman and a woman (Hell fucking yeah to that last one! Or, in this particular scenario, if an evil, sex crazed creature was involved, no, fuck no!) should not be defiled in such a manner.

Not to mention he would be beyond fucking pissed to discover the porn stars who were surefire guarantees to make him blow his load in under five minutes had been turned to dried out, crispy husks. He’d cry if there was no more Belladonna, Joanna Angel, Ashlynn Brook and, hmmm, ~~Evan Stone~~ (whoops, how’d that last one slip in there).

Identifying and stopping the situation before it got worse was so much better than having to deal with the situation when it had already reached proportions somewhere in the stratosphere of _next stop...fucked up_.

That was the answer Dean had all prepared to give to Sam if his brother walked in on him. And caught him. On Sam’s laptop. Watching porn.

Which had a shitty title.

_Better to be proactive than reactive, right, Sammy?_

So, like mentioned before, it was the name that forced Dean to do it. His refined senses as a hunter kicked into overdrive at all the negative thoughts conjured up on reading _The Sexorcist_ listed on the first line of his Google search results. Once Dean took that final step forward and clicked on the link, there would be no going back and unclicking.

He would see what there was to see. Then find a way to deal with it, if need be.

But, Jesus, a little over five minutes later how Dean wished there _was_ a way to unclick. Or, at the very least, a way to bleach his brain. Along with his eyes.

Annihilating his eardrums didn’t seem like such a bad idea, either.

But that’s getting just a little bit ahead of the story. Because the last few seconds of that video clip contained integral information. That forever altered the course of Dean’s life.

Soon as the video popped up, it was clear this was all about the man on man action. Not Dean’s normal while living in Sam’s pocket, but he wasn’t watching for his own pleasure, remember? This was almost a case and watching the short clip was just research. And, no, working most cases didn’t require Dean to unzip his jeans to pull his dick out through the opening, but... _porno_.

What else needed to be said?

And so what if it did feature two guys. Dean was alone at the moment, so it was all good.

Slumped back in the motel room’s hard, uncomfortable wood chair, laptop set-up on the wobbly table in front of him, Dean used Sam’s visit to the local museum (friggin' geek...who _did_ that type of shit on their downtime?) to enjoy himself in a time tested manner. He wrapped his fingers around his fattening cock. Slow tugs on his shaft brought him to full erection.

The video had been shot from the side and angled up, allowing full view of the bottom on his hands and knees and his hard, leaking cock pressed flush to his toned abdomen as well as the shoulders down of the top fucking into him from behind. From the odd angle, Dean wondered if the camera had been hidden, maybe nestled in a pile of dirty ass clothes in a corner of the room. Regardless, Dean appreciated the steadiness of the picture. Nothing worse than getting one off while being left to deal with a queasy, roller coaster like feeling afterwards.

“Oh, fuck,” the bottom moaned, voice a deep, guttural growl familiar to Dean because he made those same sounds himself whenever he got laid. The man’s face was turned away from the recorder, his long, dark hair spread across his broad shoulders in sweat soaked clumps. His spine arched in a graceful curve of mole speckled, tanned flesh as he slammed his ass back to meet the thrusts of the guy fucking into him. “Jesus, fuck, like that, right...right there...harder... _harder_.”

The porno playing on the screen was of an amateur, grainy quality, which meant the two gay incubi hadn’t yet launched a full-scale attack on Dean’s favorite industry. And it had to be incubi getting it on because that was the _only_ way to explain why Dean was so fucking horny while watching them...shit, they were more masculine than Dean was. It _had_ to be the evil sex vibes they somehow managed to exude through the screen affecting the _Pleasure? Pleasure where? Pleasure now!_ portion of Dean’s brain, or some other similar type shit, because Dean _was not_ gay.

Getting blown by a twink behind that bar in Tulsa last week so didn’t count ‘cause dude had looked like a lady. There had also that dude in Irving the week before...and last month there had been...

Not gay. Not gay. Not gay. Even though he was attracted to men, Dean _couldn’t_ let himself give in to his urges. Well, he couldn’t let himself give in too often (see above). If Sam discovered what Dean did with other guys on a regular basis that he refused to do with Sam, that would be beyond cruel. Even if they had long ago moved past those first tricky months after Dean had returned from hell and Sam’s welcome home that had included ejecting both Ruby and Bobby from the room so he could transform their brotherly hug into a not-so-brotherly kiss.

Dean had almost given into temptation. He and Sam knew one another better than any other person alive could claim to know either of them, loved each other so hard it fucking hurt more often than not and, goddamn, he had missed the freaking Sasquatch. To move towards what Sam had tried to initiate that day after having been apart for so long seemed like the natural progression of their relationship.

But Alaistair’s taunts that even if Sammy wasn’t already damned by the demon blood running through his veins, then Dean would be the cause of his precious brother’s soul descending into the pit on Sam’s death had been too fresh and too recent in Dean’s ears.

And why was he allowing those thoughts to cloud his mind right now? Because, hello, _sexing on the computer screen_. Even if it was maybe, kind of, sort of tainted by demons. Still better than dwelling on his time downstairs.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, God, ah, fuck. Do it. Fuck me. Damn it, _fuck me_. Faster. Harder.” The demands were followed by the sound of flesh smacking loud against flesh as the already hard fucking increased in tempo. “That’s it. Like that. Like— _fuck_!”

That punched out last word made a pulse of pre-come leak out of Dean’s dick. It dribbled down over his fingers.

Nasty time/space ignoring sex vibes. Evil shit, that.

When Sam came back, Dean planned to tell him the vacation was over, he’d found them their next job. He and Dean were locating the butt pirates before they could do any real damage. Sam didn’t need to know a good portion of why Dean wanted to track them down had a direct correlation to the sexy bottom on the laptop getting his back blown out and taking it like a champ.

What Sam didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. A rule that served as Dean’s mantra each time his resolve slipped and he met up with a man for a quick fuck in a bathroom stall or an abandoned alley.

But Dean would worry later about how he would convince Sam they had to take on this hunt. And how to do so _without_ showing him the video. Considering all the other fucked up shit Sammy had had to deal with in his life (their mother’s death, the weekend he and Dean had spent laying the Woman in White to rest in Jericho which had culminated with Sam walking in on Jesse laying pipe to another dude in _Sam’s_ bed, demon blood, getting locked in the cage with Lucy riding him, living with all the atrocities he’d committed that year he’d been walking around without a soul), suffering through the effects of having been exposed to an incubus did not need to be added to the mix.

For now, Dean was more than happy to take the fall. He would be the one to watch the video and gather all the necessary clues and details they’d need to find these two incubi. Because he was a fucking considerate big brother.

Had nothing to do at all with him not wanting Sam to know he had been watching gay porn. Nothing. At all.

Dean stopped beating his meat long enough to adjust up the volume on the laptop and to squirt some lube (never left the Impala without it) onto the center of his palm, then began to stroke himself with a fast, hard rhythm. Total length of the clip was five minutes and twenty-three seconds and it was almost at the end point. Since the description promised a spectacular conclusion, Dean wanted to finish at the same time.

“Unnngghhh, damn it, f-f-fuck me. I’m almost, shit, I’m almost...harder, man, _harder_.”

“Goddamn, you’re pushy,” the guy in back said, chuckling. He snapped his hips forward. Once. Twice. “Hungry for this cock, aren’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up and—oh, oh fuck, I’m-I’m coming. Jesus, I’m, ah, shit—”

Plastered to the screen, hand striping his aching, leaking cock up and down with relentless pulls, Dean came when the bottom did. His brain short-circuited as he watched the come pump out of the untouched dick on the screen.

Spectacular didn’t even _begin_ to describe it.

In direct opposition to the non-stop talking the man had done through the entire clip, his orgasm was silent. And filled with hard, straining muscles. White liquid pulsed out in splashes that covered the man’s six pack before dripping down to the crumpled sheets below.

Dean had to meet this guy (face down, ass up, please). He had to fuck him. He had to feel the tight heat of that ass clamping down on his cock in a viselike hold as Dean made the bottom come harder, faster, better than that pussy of a top had.

And Dean would make him come. Harder. Faster. Better.

There was no doubt about that.

He didn’t even care if his fantasy man did turn out to be an incubus, although he truly hoped he wasn’t one. Would suck beyond belief and put a serious damper on the mood if Dean was forced to kill him after he’d fucked his brains out and given them both the most glorious orgasms of their lives.

Five seconds left. Dean’s obsession pushed up off the bed and Dean stared at him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his features. So much easier to find a person when there was more to go on than how sexy they had looked and sounded mid-climax.

But the video cut off before the guy’s face was shown. Which really didn’t matter anymore because Dean had seen something else, something that identified who it was featuring in the role of _Mouthy Bottom_ in _The Sexorcist_.

Motherfucking anti-possession tattoo. Inked in the same spot on the man’s chest as it was on Dean’s. A match all the way down to the size and design.

“That stupid shit.” Rage settled into the base of Dean’s brain over Sam’s carelessness, its off-shooting tendrils extending down to wrap tight around his heart in a stranglehold. He cleared his browsing history then shut down the damning window. “Fucking Sam. I’m going to fucking _murder_ him.”

“Why? What I’d do now?” his hapless brother asked, having pushed open the door and walked in at that exact moment. He stopped right inside the threshold, broad shoulders spanning from jamb to jamb, his bright hazels focused on Dean. Whose glistening, spent cock was still exposed, as if the bottle of opened lube on the table wasn’t enough of a tell. “ _Dude_ , tell me you did not—is that your fucking _jizz_ all over the screen?” With every word he spoke, Sam’s voice climbed with incredulity. “You’re—hey, wait, where the fuck are you going? You need to clean—”

“Clean it yourself, bitch,” Dean snarled, snatching his keys out of Sam’s hand as he shoved past. He was in the Impala and down the street at a red light, ignoring the incessant ringing of his cell, before he bothered to tuck himself away and zip up.

How the fuck could Sam have been so fucking stupid? How the fuck could he have not known someone had recorded that intimate moment? How the fuck had any of this happened without Dean knowing about it?

And why the fuck was all of this bothering Dean so much?

*

Two weeks had passed since the day Dean discovered Sam’s debut as an internet porn star on Tube8. Though he still had yet to inform Sam about it, to let Sam know there was a fucking homemade movie floating around on the internet of his ass getting reamed pretty good, Dean thought about what he had seen. Every. Damn. Day.

He’d even gone back and watched the clip one more time, trying to piece together when it had taken place. The posting date was recent, within the past two months, but that didn’t mean the recording was as new.

Still didn’t stop Dean from reflecting on every time Sam had disappeared from one of their hotel rooms for a couple hours and trying to remember if Sam had had that freshly fucked look on his face when he’d returned or the musty stench of sex clinging to his skin. Definitely didn’t stop him from comparing every man he remembered expressing more than a passing interest in his little brother to what he knew of the man who had fucked Sam.

Fucked Sam. Recorded Sam. Then uploaded the motherfucking video for perverts around the globe to watch while they spanked their monkeys and got their rocks off (and, no, Dean was not being a hypocrite).

Jesus, if the man ever nut up and responded to the message Dean had sent from the account he’d created...if Dean ever got his hands on the man...

He was going to kill him. Then he was going to kill Sam.

But first, Dean was going to kill the jackass ME who was flirting with Sam right now rather than doing his job.

“So...haven’t seen you around before,” the medical examiner said, crouched down on his haunches. He stared up at Sam. Instead of down at the _mauled corpse of a middle age woman_ at his feet. His eyes flicked to Dean. “Either of you. Thought I’d met all the homicide detectives.” Attention returned to Sam, he added, “At least all the good looking ones.”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Dean muttered, words a low growl under his breath.

“The department has a backlog of cases so we’re on loan.” Sam smiled wide, highlighting his dimples. “Just providing some much needed assistance with these recent killings you guys are experiencing. We had something similar happen back home, think it might be the same guy. Same MO at least.”

“So you’ll be around for a while? Well, what do you say later we—”

“Thank you for your time, but I think you've provided us with all the information we need,” Dean interrupted. He clamped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and maneuvered the both of them to the tape which encircled the scene of the murder and prevented the gaggle of too curious onlookers from pressing forward.

“Dean,” Sam hissed once they were on the other side of the crime scene and out of ear shot, bitch face number three in full effect. He jerked away from Dean's touch, then ran a hand through his brown hair, pushing the shaggy mop up and off his forehead, a gesture that screamed of frustration. “What the hell? Since when are you a cockblocker?”

Since watching that video. Since seeing firsthand the kind of shit Sam got up to in his free time.

Teeth clenched tight, Dean replied, “I think I know where the Yehasuri’s nest is.”

Like that, the irritation was forgotten. “Then let’s go take care of it, man.”

Soon as they’d burned the tree, Dean stopped at the motel long enough to retrieve their belongings then he burned rubber, putting Philly in the Impala’s rearview mirror. And if Sam thought that made Dean a cockblocker, fuck him.

Because Dean knew the truth, knew it made him an awesome big brother. It would be over his dead body someone would have the opportunity again to take advantage of Sam.

*

In the logical portion of Dean’s brain, he had known for years Sam was sexually active. To be more specific, he had known for years Sam was sexually active with _men_. For fuck’s sake, Sam had gone off to Stanford and gotten engaged to Jesse Lee Moore and a guy didn’t get any manlier than that muscle bound fuckhead.

But Dean had known long before that day he’d met Jesse which way Sam swung. He had been the first person Sam had come out to when he was nothing more than a skinny, scared fourteen year old boy. His bones had quaked so hard in his skin as he’d laid his soul bare, Dean had been sure Sam would start hyperventilating. Not being cruel, Dean had still laughed at Sam’s stammered confession, because by that point, sixty to seventy percent of the time when Dean got some, it was with company possessed of the same junk as his own (and, yes, Dean would’ve been a hypocrite if he had passed judgment so he didn’t and fuck you).

Long story short, Sam’s choices didn’t present a problem to Dean.

Except when they did.

And Dean had a big ass problem with the boy who’d broken off from the group of his traumatized friends after they’d all spent a terrifying cold and wet night in the forest of Bumfuck, Kentucky, running away from the deranged spirit of not one, but two, serial killers. The boy sidled up to Sam and worked his way under an arm, sniffling and whimpering. They were a few feet ahead of where Dean brought up the rear, so Dean was graced with the fantastic pleasure of seeing everything.

From Sam stopping to whisper what were no doubt words of comfort and encouragement in the boy’s ear. To the boy’s resulting shudder. To the soft kiss he stood on tip toes to press to Sam’s lips.

Son of a bitch. Enough was fucking enough.

Soon as he’d reached their sides, Dean said, “Need you up front, Sammy. I’ll take over here.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean silenced him with a look. And, seriously, why was Sam even willing to argue with Dean over this boy? Going by the man in the video and Jesse, Sam liked big guys.

Guys closer to Dean’s size, goddamn it.

And not feminine, wilting pansies like this piece of shit.

As his little brother jogged off to rejoin the head of the bedraggled group, Dean slung his arm around the boy’s shoulders, knocking into him with way more force than necessary. A few seconds were spent walking in silence.

“So, Brad—name’s Brad, right?” At the boy’s nod, Dean continued, “So, Brad, I know you were the one to conjure up the Bloody Harpes.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brad responded, body stiffening with unmistakable tension.

“Oh, I think you do. See, while Sammy was out here trying to save your ass, I was busy at your house having a very enlightening conversation with your sister.”

Thin shoulders slumped in defeat. “I just wanted to meet them. Micajah is my great-grandfather, a couple times removed, and Wiley’s my uncle. They’re famous, a big part of local history and—and I just wanted to meet them.”

“Yeah, well, now you have, kid. Hope the happy reunion was everything you expected. And, by the way, dude? Your family _sucks_.” Dean dropped his arm and stomped off, leaving Brad to trail behind him while still not letting the kid fall too far back.

The first of the group to be returned home for the night, safe and sound, was Bradley Cooper Harpe. No goodbyes were spoken between him and Dean. Nor between him and Sam after Dean had filled Sam in on all the important details. Like how much of an idiot the cute twink was.

Dean rocked at being the protective older brother.

*

Slouched down in his seat, Dean nursed his warm beer. And stared at the mirror mounted behind the bottles of liquor at the reflection of Sam sitting a little ways down the bar. And nursed his warm beer. And stared some more.

Sam threw his head back and laughed, the sound full-bellied and loud. Fake. There was no way the guy sitting next to him had said anything that funny. Only thing funny about him was his appearance.

Big ears. Bigger nose. Big ass mouth. Coke bottle glasses. All around, he won the award of the year for _Goofy Ass Looking Motherfucker._

Dean brightened. Maybe Sam’s amusement had been genuine after all.

“Trouble in paradise?” the bartender asked as she sat a fresh Budweiser on a napkin in front of Dean.

“Nah,” Dean answered, jerking his gaze away from Happy Sam and his companion, the Happy Douchebag.

She cocked a hip against the bar and folded her arms across her chest as Dean took a long pull from the fresh bottle. “You’re not going to be starting any shit, are you? Timmy’s—”

Liquid sprayed out of Dean’s mouth. Because Sammy and, “Timmy? Are you fucking serious?”

A stern, no bullshit gaze was leveled at Dean. “Timmy’s a good guy. If he needs to back off, tell me so I can go take care of it. But I don’t need you starting shit up in my bar.”

“Me? Starting shit?” Dean graced her with his most innocent smile. “Never.”

“I’m holding you to that.” Then she was off, serving another customer.

Dean’s eyes returned to the mirror. And there was the goofy Timmy. But no little brother Sammy by his side.

The stool clattered to the ground as Dean pushed to his feet. He scanned the bar and—yahtzee. Sam had just slipped out the back door, one of the big guys who’d been stationed at the pool tables all night following close after him.

After slamming a twenty on the bar to clear up both his and Sam’s tab, Dean followed after his brother. To discover Sam pushed up against the wall of the bar, his pants down around his ankles and his dick in the guy’s hand.

Dean had promised not to start shit in the bar. With Timmy.

Nothing had been said about outside the bar. Or starting it with the random tool Sam had picked up. Who didn’t look a motherfucking thing like Timmy.

Far as Dean was concerned, it was open season. Swift strides ate the distance between him and his objectives. Along the way, he pulled out his pearl handled .45 from where it was shoved down the back of his jeans.

Goddamn, it felt good to place the muzzle at the tool’s temple. The high pitched squeak he emitted made Dean chuckle.

“Eh, m-m-man,” the guy stuttered. “I don’t want no trouble. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t know he was here with someone.”

“Now you do.” Dean removed his gun, placing it back where he’d gotten it from. “And now you should also really kick rocks.”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam grumbled as the guy disappeared down the alley. His ambers were heavy lidded and blazed with unfulfilled lust. “What is it with you and the cockblocking, dude?”

“I don’t know, Sammy. What is it with you trying to fuck every warm male body from Cali to New York?”

“What the fuck? Why is it okay for you to stick your dick in all the warm male bodies you want, but not okay for me to get fucked?”

“Okay for me to...” Fuck, fuckity, fuck. Dean’s eyes slid shut for a brief moment before meeting Sam’s again. “Guess I haven’t been quite as discreet as I’d thought, huh? Shit.”

Head dropped back against the bricks behind him, Sam said, “Something’s gotta give, man.” With a huff of laughter, he added in a soft, wistful tone, “If you’re going to stop me from being with other guys, then maybe you should just be with me yourself.”

 _Dean, Dean, Dean, your beloved Sammy’s going to be joining us here one day. If not because of the blood, then because of_ you _, my precious little Picasso in training._ The echo of Alaistair’s goads rung in Dean’s head.

But Alaistair was dead, a part of the past. Sam had killed him. Sam, who was still here in the now with Dean.

“Hey, man.” Big hands landed on Dean’s shoulders, anchoring him in the present. “Are you o—”

“Fine, Sammy, I’m fine.” And Dean was. And he wanted this. Fuck, how he wanted this.

So he was going to take it. Since Sam had offered and all.

“Turn around and face the wall,” Dean ordered, shrugging off Sam’s touch. When Sam hesitated, Dean said, “You want this, you better do as I say.” Once Sam had moved into position, Dean pressed up behind him and rubbed his denim clad erection against Sam’s bare ass. “Bend over a little.”

A tug of his zipper and Dean’s dick was free. He spit in his hand and massaged the moisture into his hard flesh. With no lube available, it was going to be a rough, uncomfortable ride.

Somehow, Dean didn’t think Sam would mind.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, awe clear. “Are we really...?”

“Fuck yeah.” The tip of his cock positioned at Sam’s sphincter, Dean pressed forward and past the tight muscle. He eased in as Sam pushed back. Once he was fully sheathed, Dean pulled out and slammed in to the hilt again, then repeated the action.

“Oh, shit,” Sam groaned. “Yeah, Dean, just like that, there, oh, God, _there_. Jesus, fuck, how did I know you would do it right? There, man, fuck, right _there_.”

Brutal and vicious, Dean fucked his little brother, the memory of Sam’s demands from the video of _harder_ and _faster_ combining with Sam’s current moans to guide his way. Fingers splayed against Sam’s muscular ass, Dean spread the cheeks apart so he could get in as deep as possible. Feel as much of Sam’s tight channel massaging him as possible.

“Oh, God, Dean, you’re gonna make me—” Sam’s hand snaked between his legs and latched onto his dick.

And _hell_ no. If that nameless, faceless asshole had made Sam come untouched, then Dean was sure the fuck going to do the same. Dean smacked Sam’s hand away which earned him a deep grunt of surprise in return.

But there wasn’t even enough time for Dean to do any kind of chastising before Sam’s ass clamped down hard on his dick, holding him motionless and in place. Sam’s orgasm pulsed out of him, painting the red bricks in front of him with streaks of white. His climax an unexpected punch to the gut after denying himself what he’d wanted, needed and craved for so many years, Dean tumbled over the edge right after his brother.

Harsh pants filled the alley. Dean pulled free of Sam which allowed Sam to turn so they faced one another. Leaning forward, towards Sam, Dean pressed their lips together. They shared air for a long minute.

Suddenly, the stupid video no longer mattered. Didn’t even deserve to be mentioned to Sam.

With a sigh of contentment, Dean broke off the kiss. “Whattya say about taking this back to the room, Sammy?”

“Let’s.”

All the sad, pathetic excuse who’d recorded that encounter with Sammy had gotten was a single night. The real thing belonged to Dean.

And Dean had accomplished his goal. He’d managed to make Sam come harder, faster, better.

The guy was a loser.

Dean was awesome.

Life was good.


End file.
